


Two Bards and an Artist Walked Into a Tavern

by J05HU4_W0LFF, Joseph_B_Bergstrom, RedBeardBanjo356



Series: Two Bards and an Artist [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Comedy, Fantasy, Gen, Humor, Lovable rogues, Two Bards and an Artist, Well They’re Rogues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:56:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J05HU4_W0LFF/pseuds/J05HU4_W0LFF, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joseph_B_Bergstrom/pseuds/Joseph_B_Bergstrom, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBeardBanjo356/pseuds/RedBeardBanjo356
Summary: Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, two bards and an artist walked into a tavern . . .The patrons don’t know whether to cry or laugh. Laugh, probably.
Series: Two Bards and an Artist [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205858
Kudos: 1





	Two Bards and an Artist Walked Into a Tavern

**Author's Note:**

> We wrote this in an hour and a half, when we were feeling particularly goofy, and thus can not be blamed for momentarily taking leave of our senses.
> 
> Enjoy!

Two bards and an artist walked into a tavern.

Unbeknownst to them, it was not, in fact, a tavern. It was an inn. The difference, while subtle, was stressed by both patrons and management; as all could testify that taxes sucked. To the best of their knowledge, specifically, taxes sucked money.

This fact was well known to all three, as they strode through the open doors of the Meddling Moon _Tavern_ , their purses lacking any sort of golden or silver jingle. It was darker inside, filled with the smell of ale and unconsumed bood, and all had to blink to adjust their eyes.

A fire burned merrily in the hearth, snapping and crackling as it consumed the logs laid in it. The heat from it radiated out into the room, combating the late-winter cold that permeated the inn. Just as the folks of Boodston combatted taxes, though, it wasn’t going overly well for the forces of Heat and Not Freezing Your Assorted Bits Off.

Green tables littered the floor, seating several patrons with bulging coin purses; apparently they had managed to avoid the taxman . . . or bury him where no one would find him, at least.

“Say, friends, what’ll ye be havin’ tonight?” The innkeeper called, leaning on the bar. “I’ve a nice vintage in the cellar, if ye care for it.”

“How much?” the artist asked, eyes hopeful.

The innkeeper glanced at their purses, as if he could see within them somehow with his flinty eyes. “Well, ye could sell that one mayhaps, for a bottle.” He pointed at the tallest of the bards.

Both the bard’s friends gave the suggestion considerable consideration, before finally shaking their heads. “No, he’s kind of useful.”

“I thinketh my friends are disturbed wipes that have been discarded from a man’s distinctly dirty overwear,” the tall bard said scornfully.

“Actually, on second thought—” the artist said.

“Well, if ye’ve made your minds up. I’ve the dregs of the ale keg from a fortnight ago that could be warmed up, if ye’d prefer.”

“Actually, we have a proposition of sorts,” one of the bards spoke up.

“Aye? And what be this proposition?” The innkeeper looked suspiciously at the three. You could hardly trust a man to give a fair proposition if he wasn’t even willing to sell one of his friends.

“We are but poor wanderers that have been beset upon by a string of bad luck. We would likest to solicit our fine music for yon joint.” He cleared his throat, before nudging his taller companion. “Failest that, we will rent him out; three oodstons an hour.” The shorter bearded bard motioned to the artist of the three. “Or kill ourselves—whichever works out the best for the tax collectors.”

“Three oodstons?” the innkeep asked.

“Indeed. He works well; doesn’t really respond without a bit of a lashing, though.”

“Bit much for one so skinny. What charge ye for the music?”

“An oodston and meals and a bed.” The artist nodded emphatically at the mention of a meal.

“I’ve got lute-mongrels who only charge a meal a day.”

The three glanced among themselves, before they congregated for a sudden, furious bout of whispering.

“Well, if you prefereth not music, or near-fine artistry, we doeth also comedy, and dabble in a smidge of magic. Parlor tricks, mostly, but both young and old seem to enjoy them.”

The tall one, now facing the unnerving prospect of being made to actually do physical labor muttered, “only if they are all depressed, depraved, and deplorable individuals with no sense of propriety.”

The shorter, bearded bard turned and smacked his friend, to make him shut up.

“Ah! Cometh of D!” the inkeeper exclaimed, laughing at the sight of the tall bard on the floor who was slowly shaking his head to clear it after having nearly had his ears slapped off. “A gleeman once explained this concept! ’Twas quite entertaining to all!” He gestured toward the common area, where the patrons were giving them strange looks. “Go on! Another! But be warned,” he added. “I’ll not be paying for a healer if thou busteth the head of someone important.”

Glad to have found meaningful employment that lacked any of the characteristics of meaningful employment, the three quickly made their way to the common area, tripping over a dog in their haste. The creature looked up at the world in general protest, but, once it saw who had stepped on its tail, it quickly sulked away, eager to be gone.

Quickly, the artist pulled a large rubber bood from his sleeve, and a protesting mouse from his other. One old woman shrieked at the sight of the bood, and ran from the room in terror, though the mouse seemed to enjoy a warm welcome from all once it was turned loose. The inn cat, especially.

Bits of ice brought in on the nose of one burgher were turned into lilies, and general fun and enjoyment was found by youth and old farts, just as promised, though, all too soon, the day turned to evening, and the end drew near.

The shorter bard struck up a slow, mysterious rhythm on the cittern, playing a few minor chords to set the mood.

“For our final trick, we requireth audience participation!” the artist announced, waving a sweeping gesture in the audience’s direction.

“Who of you drippy-nosed, mindlessly drooling patrons would like to volunteer first?” the tall one asked, looking around the room expectantly. The artist laughed quickly at his words, spurring the crowd to do the same, all the while making threatening motions at the tall bard to behave himself.

“For our final trick!” the artist repeated, waving his hands around mysteriously, matching with the atmosphere brought on by the cittern. “We shall fill this empty coin purse with gold.” There were gasps and chuckles of disbelief from the audience, as, with a complicated motion a purse appeared in his hand.

He gave a signal to the tall bard, who only stared back blankly. At a repeat of the threatening motions the tall bard sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes, and waved his hands dramatically, causing near to all of the lanterns and candles to blow out.

Gasps were heard again, though the innkeep swore and began relighting the ones nearest him. “No, no, you inept, insipid, incompetent keeper of rooms vaguely called inns. ’Twas intentional,” the tall one said.

The innkeep stared, the blank expression on his face much the same as the tall bard’s. “Ah! More Cometh of D!” He laughed quickly.

“The audience is supposed to _feel_ the mystery,” the short, bearded bard said, winking at a patron.

“Now then, on with the trick!” The artist pointed at the pointy-nosed burgher whose icicles they had turned to lilies. “You, good sir! Please come on up!”

“Up where?”

“Figure of speech,” the tall bard said, “you pointy, pony-faced, pontificator of pomp and wealth.”

The innkeeper barked out another laugh, and the burgher, upon seeing others chuckling, laughed as well, all the while making a private note to have the tall bard’s tongue removed and put into a glass case, with a little plaque that read “imbecile” underneath.

Forcing a grin, the burgher stood up. “What must I do, gleemen of gratuitously idiotic humor?”

“Merely hold this purse,” the artist said smacking the tall bard once his hands were empty. More laughter erupted throughout the room, as the bard staggered back, tripping over a chair and sending a serving wench laden with a plate of mashed bood flying. The city councilman wore it well, and didn’t seem at all disturbed to find the confused wench in his lap.

“Rather heavy,” the burgher commented, weighing the purse in his hand.

“Rather filled with stones, thou meanest,” the artist said, grinning. “Hold it open, my good sir, so that all may see.”

Shrugging, the burgher held the purse open, showing the nearest patrons the stones stacked inside; nearly a pound’s worth. “Your purses seemed rather empty when you cameth in,” he said, suspiciously.

The artist glanced at the tall bard hurriedly, who in turn glanced at the shorter. “Quite so!” the artist said. “But by the lost art of, um, _tranoopin_ , our colleague,” he gestured to the bearded bard, “has filled it by summoning stones from the lost city of Olood! With his music no less!”

Gasps and exclamations were heard around the room, and the burgher’s eyes widened in surprise, as he realized he held nothing less than the stones the ancient _masa_ lords had trod upon. He could be ri— well, rich _er_ , perhaps!

“And by the related art of _tranoopinarasa_ , we will fill this purse with gold in the place of stone!” The artist’s face grew severe. “But be warned, all who watcheth. The ancients wrote of those who meddled with the art without training; they vanished to the realm of _moronis’st_ , ne’er to be heard from again. Do not attempt this in your hovels, young ones.”

“Innkeep! Locketh the door, if you would be so kind,” the shorter bard called, over the sound of his cittern. “The secrets of this must not leave the room!”

The innkeep blinked, before rushing to the door.

With the only door latched shut, the lights seemed to dim slightly, as if a more foreboding darkness had settled over them all. The artist closed his eyes, his voice raising in a strange chanting that sounded quite a lot like nonsense, but was in truth the ancient words of _tranoopinarasa_.

A final shout of “ _Av moronis’st!_ ” was accompanied by a bright flash, followed by total darkness.

For long moments, no one spoke, but, finally, the innkeeper grumbled and made his way toward a lamp with a match. As light slowly returned to the room, though fainter and made heavier by shadow, the burgher looked down into his hands, and saw that the purse was gone.

In his hand instead rested a little note that read in an older version of Ooldspeak, “ _Moronis’st_ welcomes three souls.”

Shrieking, the burgher jumped back, realizing for the first time that all three of the gleemen were gone as well.

The innkeeper doubled over laughing. “Cometh of D!”

* * *

_One hour later . . ._

“Ha! The plebs never suspected a thing!” Oshu the Artist crowed, jingling a fat purse of coins in his comrades’ faces, as the three hurried along a little-used trail. He tossed the purse to the tall bard. “You think they figured it out yet?”

“You think those dribbling droplets of waste flushed by the ancient makers of tuul’eats could summon two thoughts in the same hour?” J’Seph the Bard said, laughing scornfully while he caught the purse. Hefting it, he flipped it to his shorter fellow bard.

“Oh, they might, if given enough time and a bit more gray matter,” Timli String-Breaker—the half-dwarven bard from the northlands—replied, tying the bulging coin purse to his belt, and readjusting his pants when they threatened to come down from the weight.

* * *

In a tavern the three were intent on leaving as far behind as possible, a burgher—who insisted that it was impossible for a grown man to shriek like a girl not yet flowered—went to pay for his drinks and bood. Reaching into his purse for a golden oodston—he would demand change, of course—he furrowed his brow when all he found was something rough and rather gritty.

Taking his hand out, he stared at a piece of stone from the lost city of Olood, then shrieked again at the thought of his gold in the hands of three miserable, would-be magicians.

* * *

From a hidden place among some rocks, a dog watched as the three entertainers hurried away from the city. With a growl, it began stretching, slowly changing form. First, the body began to lengthen, then the hair disappeared, and paws stretched and softened into hands and feet. Within moments, what had once been a dog now stood upright as a man.

He grunted. “Huheth,” he said, “that’s what that was all about. Well, they can escapeth the simpletons of the town, but nay shall they escapeth the Taxes.” A fierce grin spread across the face of a Tax Man. “No man escapes the Tax,” he repeated quietly, menacingly to no one, though the inn’s cat quickly hurried away once it heard, a mouse in its mouth.

The sound of little paws retreating down the alley caught the tax man’s attention, and he wheeled about. “Halt! No cat escapeth the Tax, either!”

**THE END?**

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, if you enjoyed it, or would like to see it continued on as its own series! Or if you hated it; either way.


End file.
